


Blowing Bubbles

by Felidae_Panthera_uncia



Category: Doom Patrol (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drabble, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, Larry is a mess, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:28:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23620834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felidae_Panthera_uncia/pseuds/Felidae_Panthera_uncia
Summary: The Negative Spirit tries to give Larry a break, but Larry is too stubborn to see it as one.
Kudos: 16





	Blowing Bubbles

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is really just a random drabble that I made up for no reason.. I was planning on adding to it, but now I probably won't for a while. Anywho, I hope you enjoy! It was fun writing it and being in poor Larry's shoes. :,C

The simplicity of blowing bubbles. Nothing in the world could match it. Whether it be through a circle, conjured by water or simply the cusps of two lips leaving spittle to spare. It was all the same when it came down to the joy it brought. Except, some were more of an immersive experience than others. 

For instance, now, the boy sat at a weathered oak table with his straw in one hand, the other grasping onto a ceramic green mug. Inside, the rich cream bubbled with excitement. The conjurer; a small boy with wavy chestnut hair bent over to get a better look at his work. 

The slow billows of opaque white bubbles progressed their way up the small cup. Each cylindrical shimmered with the dimmed green reflection bouncing from the side of the cup. As they made their way, the boy payed little attention to the sound of their making. Everything in this moment, from the tiny balls of white to the crackling of expired bubbles enthused him further. 

The sea of cream met the mouth of its dark green cave. No longer were the bubbles tinted slightly green in pigment, they now held pristine opalescence as morning light filtered over them. The morning light filtering over each one, creating little star bursts of highlight.

There was something exhilarating in the creation of something so tangibly tactile. At any moment he could reach a finger and pop one bubble or even a cluster. Milk would coat his fingertips, but that would be a minor sensation registered. Instead, it would propel him further to create more foam- to replace the fractional amount that disappeared from existence under his touch. 

The suds leached their way from the lip of the cup. Now, without the vibrations retaining their circular form they recollected together back to thin spirals liquid. Milk slided down the trajectory of the cup’s surface. Pooling on the marked up, oak surface the liquid stayed close to the cup; connecting and reconnecting with fellow splotches after each drop slithered or dropped down.

There was a warmth in the child’s chest. Not from the continued exhales of air it took to continue the creation of milky bubbles, but from something else. Something akin to when the boy would laugh. A sort of effortless happiness that enveloped the small chest. 

oO o o Oo o o O 

I woke up then. A leftover reminiscing of joy spread throughout my breast. It resembled a panic attack, but without the uncomfortable realization that you had no breath. It was just a bundle of warm coals lodged in my chest like injected medicine. Or built up blood from an internal wound, but without the pain.

It was pressuring in Its insistence to remain there. What was its purpose? Did it have one?

It was unusual. Unsettling in the greatest of manners. When did I ever wake up feeling like a springtime crocus in the midst of frost? The most obvious and first denial ridden answer was: never, but I knew that wasn’t completely true. But all the same it wasn’t per-usual. 

A gurgling sound filtered through my ears like a phantom memory. Then came the imagery ordered from a boy pouring milk into a glass to the glass foaming over with created bubbles.

Blowing bubbles, that was something I used to enjoy when I was a kid. When this was simpler. When Life was simpler. When I hadn’t realized what an abomination I actually was. 

My eyes strained to the left as I looked over at the glass of water sat perched on my bedside table. It simply was there. How easy would it be if I lifted it towards me and worked what was left of my lips to create bubbles. It would be deafening in the staleness of this room. It would be unheard of.

Even if I tried what would be the point? To infect water and any living microbes with my diseased spittle? Wouldn’t that be a laugh, me trying to blow bubbles without the outer workings of lips? I bet I’d drool all over myself too!

Imagery took over, of a fool who tried and failed to blow bubbles like a juvenile. Instead, only resonating saliva against the cup’s inner walls. Lips barely moving, only quivering with effort to even so much as attempt such repetitive pattern of movement.

And what would happen to the water that I would infect with my aggrievanced bodily fluid. Would I dump it uncaringly into the plumbing? Forgetting for just that moment of tried happiness that I’m poisonous. Even more so than that. I’m radioactive. Would I let myself conjure some sense of forgotten joy just to pollute a source of water?

I chuckled to myself even when I felt the tell tail signs of the entity warning me to stop its torment. The skin against my chest tingled with the strain of the being inside. Once again, trying to tell me something. What… like I was supposed to know!

“Just fuck off,” I verbalized to the open air.

My usual resting position was too constraining all of a sudden. It always seemed this way when ‘it’ tried to interfere with my thoughts or actions. Previously, laying ramrod straight on my bed, I sat up. I rubbed my hands against my scalp-where my nonexistent hair used to be, the bumps and grooves neither settling nor unsettling. Just there. Just who I am now. Who I always was.

The being stirred inside me, warning me to quit that line of thought. At least that’s what I imagined it wanted since the next thing I heard was the phantom bubbles being blown. Opalescent foam in my mind’s most inner eye.

I shook my head, ‘Where did this - tangent even come from, anyways?’ I asked myself.

I knew the answer, I always knew.

Whenever some random thought or memory came up it usually meant the spirt had tampered with my memories. Removing context, just letting me ride in the short wave of some positive emotion or another. 

“What was it this time, huh?” I asked the air accusingly.

Silence.

“What did you let me see?”

Silence again.

Larry scoffed. “I bet it’s so easy for you to pick through my mind. Rearrange (cherry-pick) the unassuming parts. Throw out the negative bits.” I threw up my hands motioning the entity’s actions “create a whole new narrative,” I said solemnly.

Motioning towards my body then head, “But that’s not how this works” I hissed.

Red lights exposed themselves completely, throwing the room into a blinding red cacophony. I squinted, even though my eyes had long ago adapted to ultra-rayed light. It still was unpleasant.

I snorted, “Oh, are you upset now? Did I disrupt your sensibilities?”

The red lights decorating the entrance flared again. This time a crackling emitting from the low voltage bulb.

I sighed dejectedly, already feeling the sensation of the entity ready to eject from my body. Would I ever be able to communicate with it? Did it even understand logical boundaries? I snorted, ridiculing myself for such a stupid thought. Probably not since it already decided to throw caution to the wind when it hijacked me.

“Okay...” “So, here’s an idea, why don’t you show me one of your memories.”

‘No,’ it intoned from the electrical fields. That was new... had I ever heard it speak outside of a dream or mind-bending experience?

I decided that my best bet was to be cautious not caustic, so I asked back “No?” in the most patient tone I could offer.

“No,” it repeated. 

And it yanked itself out of me, leaving only blackness in its wake.


End file.
